


Blue Alibi

by blacktop



Series: The Blue Case Files [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Gen, Mystery, sunshine gothic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 05:37:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktop/pseuds/blacktop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fusco and Reese tackle a deadly case in rural Upstate New York and try to escape the undertow of a dangerously twisted family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Prologue: The Stream**

 

_Scrambling down the irregular flight of stone steps, Reese and Fusco raced to the body sprawled in the shallows of the little stream._

_At this turn in its course the rushing water slowed through a widened bed._

_The resulting pool was flanked by gently sloping banks of grass dotted with stones. The water offered a dappled surface whose rippling was now disrupted by the naked human figure._

_From the heights of the wooded cliff overlooking this quiet enclosure, the two men had spotted the body, known what its presence meant, and descended quickly despite the certainty that there was nothing more to be done._

_Struggling behind him, Fusco marveled at Reese’s movements, his sure-footed approach suggested that rock-climbing was yet another of his many skills. The exposed roots of ancient trees offered hand-holds which Fusco took advantage of. Reese flew by them with careless grace._

_When he got to the stream, he waded into the water, looking along the grassy bank until he found the large stone he expected would be there._

_Fusco picked it up, examined its smooth surface for evidence, and felt confident he had found the right one. With a grunt, he threw the stone into the deep center of the pool._

_As he watched it sink below the concentric circles, he thought back to the events of two days earlier which had brought them to this melancholy place._

 

xxxxxxxxx

 

**The Village**

 

“Not a care in the world, huh, Lionel? 

John Reese’s mocking voice buzzed into his ear, right up inside his head like a bee in a goddamn flower.

“Country life looks good on you.”

Fusco shifted forward on the bench and felt his sweaty shirt sticking to the wooden slats. A splinter worked its way along his bare thigh, just south of where his khaki shorts ended.

He turned to look at his sometime partner, who was sprawled like an obnoxious life guard next to him, all long legs, golden tan, and tons of attitude.

“What’re you doing up here?” 

Not the chummiest greeting, but then Fusco wasn’t happy to see Reese so why should he pretend. 

This was supposed to be his private vacation time, his week to relax. His chance to get away from the summer city, away from Reese and his nosy boss, away from their crackpot cases and lunatic assignments. 

Out of town, out of sight, off duty. 

No such luck. Damn Reese. And his prying, insinuating voice.

“Why, Lionel, I picked up a tourism guide book just the other day and it said that Onondaga County was the garden spot of New York state. And in fact, it said specifically that the quaint town of Ionia Corner was, Quote the ideal place to unwind, relax and leave the cares and worries of the city behind. Unquote.”

“Bullshit.”

“Yep, bullshit. How’d you guess?”

“I don’t know, just a hunch, wise guy. So what gives?”

Fusco looked around at the picture window of the dress shop behind him. 

Through the pink curlicue lettering, he could see Allison leaning over a glass case looking at rows of jewelry. Her long blonde curls draped over the counter top, hiding her face but exposing the sleek pale column of her neck. 

She looked dazzling to him. She always did.

Allison made jewelry for a living, had closets full of the stuff -- delicate little silver earrings, pendants, rings and bracelets -- so why she would want to buy more was beyond him. 

But he was just the beast-of-burden on her safari this afternoon, so his was not to reason why. If she wanted to fill up his arms with boxes and sacks and load him down with a saddlebag full of stuff to carry, he was happy for it. 

If it meant he got to spend the day with Allison, tagging along like a regular boyfriend, that was what counted. 

For the past seven months he had spent so much of his time trying to show her that being a cop wasn’t all there was to him. That he could be more than that in her life. 

So this four-day trip to visit her family farm was important. It meant that she wanted him to know her better, to take a new place in her life. He felt he knew Allison as an artist and businesswoman in Brooklyn; now he could see something of her roots as a daughter and sister in Ionia Corner too. 

Well sure, when it came right down to it, he had to admit that except for the twice-a-day sex, this week had been frigging boring. 

Wednesday, Thursday, now Friday. Creeping along in a parade of board games, hiking, berry picking, ice cream churning, reading the first novel in who knows how many years, complicated dinners, fierce family arguments. Tears, then more ice cream, more tears and shopping. Just your typical vacation in Upstate New York.

The village of Ionia Corner wasn’t more than a single long street with baskets of flowers hanging from each lamppost. 

The road was lined on both sides with snooty galleries and stores tricked out by hipsters who had escaped from Brooklyn carrying their artsy merchandise and used books, their herbal teas and weird flavored yogurt. Did anyone really want grape-balsamic frozen yogurt? 

But this sleepy town was where Allison’s family had hung out for almost fifty years. If he wanted to keep this relationship going past the first hot sex phase, he had to make nice with her people too. 

So here he was, Bronx Boy Lionel Fusco, deep in Onondaga County. 

And beyond all expectations, it really was kind of blissful, in an idiotic rural sort of way.

Until Mr. Good News turned up to ruin things, like always.

Lounging on the bench, his legs stuck out in front of him as if he owned the sidewalk, Reese looked like the summer was agreeing with him. That hang-dog face with the hunted eyes and tight mouth was gone, replaced by an open expression and a light smile running across his lips. 

He had put on a few pounds around the middle which, with the tan skin and the quiet hands, meant that he was at ease. As much at ease as he could ever get in his line of work. 

The reason didn’t require lots of hard investigation; Fusco figured it came down to Reese hanging around Carter. With her in the picture, Reese lost some of that wired up tenseness. He wasn’t cheery and bouncy, not by a long shot, but the rough places were smoothed over a little. She was smart police and a savvy woman both. And Fusco figured she was using all of that know-how in this particular situation.

It wasn’t Fusco’s habit to mix in other people’s personal business, even his partner’s. That way just led to trouble, especially with someone as prickly and private as Carter. 

But if she could get Mr. Gloom-and-Doom to sip from a glass half-full instead of half-empty every once in a while, then it was good for all four of them. So Fusco figured it was in his own best interest to help them keep a good thing going.

Reese was smirking at him now, the nastiest look in his repertoire.

“What am I doing up here? Visiting you, of course, Lionel.”

“Dontcha got a job or a hobby or a friend in the city? There’s a new baby elephant at the Bronx Zoo worth seeing. Born just last week, I hear.”

“Hey, now you’re hurting my feelings! Aren’t you glad to see me?”

“Not on your life, pal. What are you doing here?”

“What do you think?” 

Reese looked like a cat enjoying the mouse’s last desperate minute. Fusco didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but he had to wipe the sweat threatening to drip past his eyebrows. 

“On the job? Jesus, you mean you gotta number here in this burg? How’s that even possible?”

“Not one, four. Pal.”

“Whattaya mean, four?”

“Finch gave me new numbers last night, four in the same family. The Nix family. Maybe you know them, Lionel.”

“Nix! That’s Allison’s family! You’re up here to check out my girlfriend’s family? You gotta be kidding me.”

“Not kidding. Four numbers for four sisters, all here in Ionia Corner.”

Reese’s handsome face hardened a bit. 

Despite his cheery pose, he was on a case and the investigation was important to him. Fusco knew that look: the focus, the intensity, the overwhelming conviction that no one but him could protect whoever was in danger. 

Fusco felt a familiar thrill of anticipation tingling along his spine.

“So spill, what’s the story?”

“I don’t know yet. I just want to stay close, watch the family, check things out, make sure nothing goes wrong.” 

Reese had thought this through, it seemed, but only part way.

“So you need to wrangle me an invitation to stay the weekend with your girlfriend and her folks on their farm.”

Despite the potential excitement of cracking another case together, Fusco was sure this was a bad idea. This one was far too personal.

“Oh, no! No chance! This is my first time meeting Allison’s sisters and their old man. No way I’m screwing up this visit by shoe horning you in.”

“Look, you know Finch’s information is reliable. He’s never been wrong. He’s not wrong now.” 

Reese paused, as if daring Fusco to challenge that. 

No denying it: the little guy did seem to have some kind of inside track on all sorts of private intel no one else had a handle on. 

Maybe the Birdman was tapping into that data mining project the Feds had set up. Carter kept bitching for more info, crabbing on about it all the time. But Fusco figured the less they knew about Finch’s sources the better off they were.

Annoying, sure, but since Reese was right about his partner, Fusco said nothing. Reese took that silence as consent, so he continued.

“One or all of the Nix sisters could be in danger this weekend, tonight even. You want to protect them, Lionel, you include me in your little house party.”

Fusco looked once more into the shadows of the cozy shop. 

Allison was at the cash register now, counting out bills for her purchase, her little white fingers flying over the leather wallet, her dimples flickering around her rose-pink mouth. She and the shop keeper looked happy.

He hesitated but Reese didn’t give him any room for maneuvering.

“So what’s it going to be, Lionel? An invite to the Nix farm? Or do I tell Allison about your tutoring lessons last month with that cute school teacher?”

“Tutoring? That was Lee’s science fair thing.”

“Yes, some kind of after school project, as I remember. What was her name? Ramona something?” 

 

 

**The Farm**

 

Ionia Plaisance, the Nix family farm, was twenty miles due west of town. The ride to the farm was uneventful, for which Fusco was eternally grateful.

Allison insisted that the nice John Randall, Lionel’s real estate mogul friend, ride shotgun while Fusco took the rear seat, next to the three burlap bags full of groceries. 

Since John had tricked her in the checkout line at the market and paid for all of the food, she thought it only right to invite him home for dinner.

As they bumped over rutted dirt roads, past pollen-filled meadows and thick clumps of dark trees, Reese was expansive, cordial, smiling. Patient even. 

Despite wearing that same uniform of black slacks and white shirt, Reese looked like he fit in here, deep in the country, like he was born to it somehow.

Fusco hardly recognized him. 

Reese insisted on carrying two of the bags from the car, leaving Allison to scamper on ahead into the house shouting for her sisters. 

It took time for Reese and Fusco to navigate their way through the gang of goats which came running at them as soon as they got out of the car. Fusco thought the six black-and-white animals looked sort of like dogs, only with harder heads, knobbier knees, and the damnedest yellow square-pupil eyes. 

By the time the men had lugged their parcels into the kitchen and deposited them on the long pine table, Allison was chattering like an excited squirrel to her sisters about how John just had to stay overnight. 

They agreed they could make up the second floor sitting room. Turn it into a spare bedroom in no time flat. It would be no work at all, she told John; they would just love to have him stay.

Allison met no opposition from her sisters who welcomed the arrival of the stranger with a speed that Fusco found unsettling. 

He knew Reese could be nice when necessary, he had seen it once or twice: the soft eyes and low voice and gentle touch. But he had never witnessed the full-blown power of his friend’s charm until that moment. 

Now Reese was flat-out flirty, for fuck’s sake.

These girls barely knew him and here they were ready to invite Reese into their home and settle him in for the weekend. Probably offer to screw him by the end of the evening the way things were going.

Fusco felt embarrassed for the whole Nix family really. 

Ondine was the youngest, so at just twenty-five she really couldn’t be held accountable for her behavior. Beneath her cap of shorn dark hair her fresh face and violet eyes were shiny with excitement. 

As she watched Reese from the corner next to the refrigerator, she kept her hands behind her back to hide the grime around her nails. She was a potter, just come back from her studio, so it was normal to have dirty hands. Why feel ashamed of that, Fusco wondered. 

Allison’s older sisters, Vivienne and Morgan, could have been expected to act with a little more self-control, Fusco felt. They knew better, or at least they should have. Instead they behaved like horny suburban housewives sizing up the new Fed Ex delivery man.

Viv’s blue eyes had the sharpness of the professional photographer she was. During this kitchen exchange, she spoke the least of the four women. Usually she contributed a cutting remark or five, but in Reese’s presence she held her sharp tongue and just took in the scene. 

Fusco watched in amazement as Vivienne passed her hand over her close-cut silver hair not once but three times during the first ten minutes of the conversation.

For Morgan, measuring a new prospect seemed to be SOP. None of the women was exactly shy, Fusco knew, but green-eyed Morgan the painter, with her bright blonde hair trimmed razor close, was like a fierce geyser bubbling with energy and drive now. 

Despite the comical specks of color freckling her nose and cheeks, her focus on Reese scared Fusco. 

The father was nowhere in sight. 

Which was good, because the way things were moving with this crazy family, Fusco figured Anthony Nix would just go ahead and write Reese into his will as soon as they met.

“Well, don’t act like you were born in a barn, Lionel! Show your friend upstairs. Let him take a break and wash up, if he wants to.” 

How Vivienne had fallen so easily into the role of bossing him around like that was a mystery, but Fusco had learned from day one not to argue with a direct order from her.

He and Allison led Reese up the staircase, which was lined with wooden clipboards hanging from nails. Each clipboard gripped a black and white photograph of hands or feet, sometimes a shoulder or back, never a face. 

Vivienne’s camera work was simple and fine, with shadows that made the limbs look almost like giant stone sculptures instead of flesh. Fusco could see how Viv won awards for her pictures –- they were stunning –- but not why some collector would pay thousands of dollars for a single print.

Allison showed Reese the layout of the second floor: the modest square room she and Fusco shared, with its pink drapes and purple bed cover; the hall bathroom with lots of tiny old-fashioned white tiles on the floor and walls. 

Fusco wondered how those nineteenth century farmers could have been happy squeezed into space this stingy.

The study, with its tall cases of dusty books and an unused roll-top desk, was divided by a sliding door. Allison closed the door to make the attached reading alcove into a cramped nesting place outfitted with a built-in bed. 

Although blue curtains drooped beside them, the shutters on the single window in the alcove were nailed shut. With the partition sealed the little room was almost totally dark. One bare bulb dangled from a cord overhead, its shade long gone.

Her hands fluttering in the air, Allison launched into a fit of apologies as she folded faded blue sheets and a navy blue blanket over the worn mattress.

“I know this isn’t as fancy as what you’re used to in Manhattan, John. No central air conditioning and all. But I hope you can make yourself comfortable here anyway.”

Reese loomed over her, crowding her personal space.

“No worries at all. The overhead fan is fine. I learned a long time ago not to be picky about my accommodations, so I’m pretty flexible. I can fall asleep anywhere. 

“And this looks perfect to me, Allison.” 

He gave her a warm grin and threw in an extra eye twinkle for good measure. 

Fusco felt like slugging him.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Parlor**

 

On the stairs heading back down, Reese asked: “Where do the rest of your sisters stay, Allison? If you don’t mind my asking?” 

Reese’s manners were always sharp, especially when he was on a case. Exaggerated, Fusco would say, but his technique seemed to get the job done. Allison slipped into an easy exchange.

“Oh, they live in their own apartments out back.” 

She waved her hand toward the blue-ceilinged porch that shaded the kitchen’s rear door.

“This place is a compound really. Well, that sounds so grand, doesn’t it? Like the Kennedys or something. When all we have really is a jumble of buildings piled up all over the grounds.” 

Allison’s laugh sounded thin and tight, like she was pulling back the covers on some deep secret about her family, even though all she was talking about was the sleeping arrangements. 

As the three sank into the lumpy cushions of old arm chairs jumbled in the parlor, Allison explained the set-up of Ionia Plaisance.

The building they were in was the original farm house, built in eighteen hundred and something. Frame structure, white clapboard siding, deep porches on the front and back. Just a large kitchen attached to a small parlor with a fireplace, an upright piano, and a thirty-year old layer of aqua blue paint on the walls. A second space off the kitchen had been a bedroom at some point.

Reese made vague clucking sounds, leaning back in the chair, his legs wide, brow wrinkling to show a sympathy that struck Fusco as totally fake. 

Empty noises for sure, but when Reese combined them with his soft blue stare, Fusco could feel the magnetic pull that compelled Allison to keep talking and talking and talking.

“When Daddy bought Ionia Plaisance in 1964 he was looking for a quiet place to launch his new shoe-making business.

“He said that as the son and grandson of cobblers, making shoes was all he knew how to do. So he wanted to see how far he could go with it. Make something of himself with the only skills he had.” 

But Anthony Nix didn’t just want to keep making simple shoes like his peasant ancestors. He hoped to transform his family’s humble trade into a high-end business. He wanted a country retreat where he could make shoes and boots for the rich brokers and bankers who would never stoop to speak to him or his immigrant kin if they crossed paths in the streets of Lower Manhattan. 

Though Allison had never shared her family’s history with him before, it all sounded painfully familiar to Fusco. 

He had heard variations on the same story from his own parents and grandparents. He sympathized with Anthony Nix’s fierce ambition. And he recognized that everlasting taste of bitterness and residual despair. The feeling that no matter how much you achieve, you are never quite good enough to pass the test.

Under Reese’s gentle questioning, Allison warmed to her story. He pulled his fingers lightly over his mouth, tugging a little at the bottom lip and Fusco saw her cheeks turn pink. 

With pride she told how her father succeeded in making his name synonymous with luxury leather goods. 

To own a pair of custom-made Nix shoes was to tread in the footsteps of the finest, she said. 

“If you have that aquamarine Nix box with its golden scallop shell logo in your closet, it means you’ve made it to the top at last.” 

She said this almost fiercely, as if defying Reese to challenge her. He nodded, lowering his chin but keeping his eyes on her face as she continued the story.

“And your mother? Where is she?” 

His long hands clasped in his lap like he was praying, Reese’s voice was so low, Fusco had to lean forward in his chair to catch the questions. 

Was he always so tender, so patient with his targets? Or just with the ones he believed were innocent?

“Mommy died seven days after Ondine was born. I don’t really remember her all that much; I was only six. But Vivienne remembers a lot more. She says Mommy had long curly blonde hair like mine and deep violet eyes like Ondine and a big laugh like Morgan.”

Allison sighed then and Fusco wished for all the world that he could take her in his arms, stroke her hair and show her how open his heart was to her in that moment. 

He hoped to God Reese wasn’t a mind reader.

After a long pause to wipe away a tear trickling down her cheek, Allison went on.

For twenty-five years Anthony had slept in a small room over his shop, accompanied by a succession of mutts he adored. He came to the main house only to eat meals with his daughters and play the piano.

Each of the girls was gifted with her father’s fine eye and artistic inclination. Anthony encouraged them to give expression to their creative impulses. He gave them lessons, bought supplies; on several occasions he coerced patrons to buy their art. 

Allison’s voice hardened as she got to this part of the family story. 

Her words got shorter, her sentences wrapped up in such tension and sadness that it took all his will power to stay rooted in his chair. Fusco wanted to flee the parlor now, take a big breath of fresh air, clear his mind of all of this before it overwhelmed him. 

He turned his head in Reese’s direction to see if his friend was similarly affected, but it was difficult to read the expression on his calm face. Reese nodded to encourage Allison to continue, his eyes shining bright like hers.

She said that each daughter had made one attempt to move out of the family home, to make a clean start and practice her craft in another place. 

But each time Anthony stifled those plans, sometimes with harsh words or taunts. 

In phone calls, letters, email messages, texts, even postings on his own web site he told them how he felt: their work was good but not excellent, competent but not superior. They didn’t have the genuine spark of creativity it took to conquer the world the way he did. 

“It was like a wish he made over and over again. And I guess he said it so often it came true.” 

She spat out her words now, the sounds sharp and scary in a way that was new to him. Fusco hoped he never felt that sour anger turned on him.

Anthony Nix had backed his hard terms with inducements. He brought his girls back home with gifts too generous to resist. 

Over the years he raised a series of buildings adjacent to his own barn, a separate studio for each daughter. 

Each structure in the compound was designed to the specific needs of the artist -- dark rooms, kilns, well-lit lofts with double-height ceilings. Each space had all that the women could dream of, everything they could desire in material support and creature comfort. 

Luxurious bedroom suites topped off each studio, decorated by their father as detailed expressions of his own taste.

“The rooms looked like what he thought we should be, what we could be if only we just tried harder.” 

Allison sounded defeated when she admitted this.

“And you? Why didn’t you stay here, Allison?” 

Reese’s voice was barely above a whisper now, his eyes boring into hers. 

“John, I don’t know why exactly. I just know I have to keep trying. Trying to make a normal life on my own.”

And then in the quiet that followed, the two of them seemed to float off to a private island somewhere, sharing some common emotion Fusco could only sense as a vague tremor raising the hair across his neck.

He fidgeted in the chair to remind them both that he was in the parlor too.

As if startled out of a dream then, Allison continued.

“My little workshop in Brooklyn isn’t much. Lionel can tell you that. Just a room I rent above my apartment. But it’s all I need for now. I can design my jewelry, keep my tools and my materials close to hand, work as long as I want to with no one to tell me how or what to do.”

Fusco reached his hand out and squeezed her fingers. He felt he wanted to tell her story for her. Like it was a part of him too, only maybe he could explain it to Reese even better than she could.

“You oughta see the fancy silver thing-a-ma-bobs Allison makes. With all sorts of vines and flowers soldered onto wires. Sometimes there’s a tiny fish or a panther stuck under one of the leaves, just peeking out if you look real close.”

Fusco put his index fingers close together to show how small the work was.

“I really like the ones she makes with a miniature giraffe curled up sleeping under a mushroom cap.”

Allison smiled, bringing him back into her embrace again. 

He wanted Reese to appreciate Allison as he did, to feel a little bit of the admiration he felt for her creativity. 

“Allison up there at her work bench, what a sight! She’s got these bug-eyed goggles covering half her face, a heavy leather apron strapped around her, blue flame shooting out of the soldering iron.”

He stopped before telling Reese about the way he had seen fierce determination freezing fine lines around her mouth and darkening her blue eyes, the way her drive made him excited even as it frightened him.

Some times when she was in a frenzy to finish a commission, she worked until three in the morning, got up near noon, took long baths at dusk, sketching in notebooks she kept in a basket by the tub. 

He had come across her in the bath like that a few times, her little pale body floating in the soapy water, her eyes vacant and soft. 

She looked so beautiful to him then, so sleek, dreamy, and happy.

He didn’t want Reese to know everything he felt, to think he was falling in love with Allison, with the way his future could be with her. 

But it was sure possible; he felt it in his heart. 

It sure was possible.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Kitchen**

 

The father joined them for dinner, taking up all the oxygen in the big kitchen. 

Anthony Nix sat at the head of the table, his old black-and-white dog Shep lounging at his feet. The two male guests occupied the center of each flanking bench with a daughter at each elbow. Reese was bracketed by Morgan and Ondine, Fusco by Allison and Vivienne. 

The four women wore matching long dresses in thin cloth with colors so pale Fusco had to look twice to realize they weren’t actually just white. Green, pink, blue, yellow: the faint shades made the skin of their arms and necks look watery and fresh, like they had never been in the sun in their lives. 

Allison wore the palest green shade, something like the undersides of new leaves, a color that made her eyes take on a matching mint green that stirred Fusco’s heart.

All of them wore the same dangling silver earrings, which Fusco recognized as one of Allison’s graceful vine-covered creations. 

The conversation coiled around in a design so complicated and deep that Fusco felt he could only see its shadowed outline.

He sensed that although the father was directing the talk, dominating it as he had on previous evenings, it was actually Reese at the center of attention. His fake real estate business, his international travels, his hobbies and cars and houses. 

By some mysterious force, every line of conversation returned to Reese. 

Fusco wasn’t surprised that the women were drawn to his friend. After almost two years of working together, he figured this was just the way of the world. He imagined that women threw their panties at Reese on a daily basis. Usually Reese figured out a way to disguise his magnetism, sinking back into the crowd to avoid drawing attention.

It was a magic trick that Fusco had seen him pull off on many occasions when it served his mission to blend into the background.

But now, it felt different. 

Perhaps spurred on by the women or by rivalry with their father, Reese seemed to glow from within, his face shining, his eyes sparking with a concentrated energy Fusco had never seen before. 

Fusco knew this heat was sexual and reciprocal, flaring in all directions, firing the air around the kitchen so that everyone in it was on edge.

The meal in front of them was almost forgotten. 

Steaming salmon slabs stretched on wooden planks down half the length of the table, slathered in butter and herbs picked from the raised garden plots next to the backdoor; mounds of roasted potatoes with their red skins still on; fresh green beans; pickles Morgan had put up earlier in the year. Bunches of black grapes from vines crawling over the back porch were scattered down the table like gem stones. 

Even the plates they used were home-grown. Fusco thought Ondine’s handiwork was beautiful. Heavy and white, like country cream frozen into solid shapes, the swirls of her fingers were faintly traced along the rim of each bowl, mug, and platter. Sunflowers cut from the garden drooped in wide necked vases that matched the plates.

The only foreign element in the meal was the frozen corn, used because it was too early for the crop growing in the south field. Morgan insisted that Reese make a plan to return to Ionia Plaisance in August when the corn was harvested. 

To Fusco’s surprise, he promised her he would come back to the farm if he could.

Scowling at the invitation, probably because he hadn’t offered it, Anthony Nix looked nothing like his daughters. 

Where they were slight and sinewy with fine long fingers and pointed ears and chins, he was square and taller than Reese by a head. 

He propped his elbows on the table, showing scarred hands like blocks of wood sticking out of the rolled up sleeves of his blue work shirt. His stringy gray hair was gathered at the nape with a leather cord. 

The only other personal decoration he wore was an intricate silver ring where a wedding band would have been.

Half way through the fifth bottle of red wine, Anthony Nix’s talk turned as blunt as his fists. He wasn’t used to being ignored and he wanted the full attention of his audience again.

“Should have named you three Goneril, Regan, and Cordelia! Would have served notice to the unsuspecting world, wouldn’t it? Treacherous daughters ahoy! Sailors and naïve bachelors beware!” 

He glared down the table, his light blue eyes shifting from one side to the other to see if anyone objected to the accusation. 

Catching sight of his youngest child, Anthony added, “And my little Ondine, mother-murdering Ondine. You could’ve stayed Ondine, for all I care.” 

Fusco didn’t miss the whimper that seeped out of the girl at this cold statement.

Anthony’s words were crisp, though Fusco assumed the man must be drunk as a sailor to rag on like this. He ducked his head, not wanting to provoke a confrontation so early in the evening. 

So he was surprised when Anthony directed the next barb in his direction.

“That was a Shakespeare reference, Lionel. In case you can’t keep up with the class.”

Fusco felt his neck grow hot, so he was glad when Allison curved her fingers into his palm. It was good to have her beside him, willing to touch him even here in front of the others.

“And no, Lear I most decidedly am not. As sane as they come, never doubt it.” 

Thundering now: “Never doubt it! Any of you!” 

A pause, then in soft wheedling tones: “Mr. Randall, may I call you John?”

Reese nodded and looked the old man straight in the eye but said nothing.

“John it is, then. Reeling in a commission of one point eight million on your last sale is quite impressive, I must say. Operating at the high end like that, you must have weathered the recent economic downturn in fine style.”

This was a lecture, not a conversation, so the pause was only to catch his breath.

“Always say, the wealthy won’t stop needing shoes or houses, no matter how tough times get for the rest of us. Cheap pots, pictures, paintings, jewelry –- frippery like that –- the rich will give it up when finances flounder.

“But shoes, beautifully crafted shoes, will always be in demand.”

Reese was in an accommodating mood. “You may be right, Mr. Nix. I certainly know Manhattan real estate has been good for me.”

Anthony’s mood seemed to inflate then, as if he had won a great debate. He spread his arms wide, to indicate both sides of the table and turned his large face fully toward Reese.

“So tell me, which of my lovely daughters have you picked out, John? All of them are available, as I am sure they have made abundantly clear. Not a shy pussy in the litter, I’ll give ‘em that.”

“Daddy!” 

The squeal came from one of the sisters, but Fusco couldn’t tell which, they sounded so much alike.

Anthony raised his voice to shut down the objection.

“All four of them are available, like I say. And all are desirable, you can be sure of it, John. Morgan’s a spitfire. Ondine employs that Oriental passivity to great effect. Even poor Allison has her beguiling moments before the druggy stupor descends again. 

“Yes, John, each of my girls is delectable in her own special way. Except perhaps, Vivienne I suppose. But oh well, what can one say? The advancing years have been kind to all my children, even dearest Vivie.”

“That nastiness just never gets old, does it, Daddy?” 

Vivienne’s voice dropped lower at the end of the sentence. Fusco cringed to see the way color drained from her already pale cheeks as she looked at her father.

“Not as ancient as your suitors, Vivienne. What was the absurd name of your last one? DeSoto Khan? What kind of godforsaken name is that?”

“A good one, Daddy. A very good one.” Her growl was soft now, giving up the fight, handing him the victory again.

Reese’s voice rumbled into the sad quiet after Vivienne stopped speaking.

“I don’t make a practice of letting other men choose my women for me, Mr. Nix.” Stiffly, like he wanted to hit the man, but couldn’t because of etiquette rules or something.

Anthony roared as if Reese had shared a great joke.

“No, good-looking fellow like you. Don’t imagine you do, John. 

“Although that free-booter approach can get you into trouble if you’re not careful. Lots of gold-diggers out there, John. Advice from a jolly old pirate like me could come in handy, even in matters of the heart. Or the bed.”

Before Reese could respond, Anthony rose from the table, announcing by this abrupt gesture an end to the meal. 

Shep trotting at his heels, he moved to the parlor and with a loud bang, flipped up the hinged cover over the piano keys. 

This seemed to be the signal for his daughters to leap into action: clearing the plates from the table, pouring the remaining wine into a pottery jug, pulling out a battered leather trunk from behind the sofa.

In a just a few minutes the women were gathered around their father, each with an instrument in hand. Fusco had heard Allison doodling on the guitar before, but he had never realized that she could play the violin too. Her sisters took up a flute, a guitar, and another violin. 

Led by Anthony’s light touch on the piano, the family started in on a round of classical music. Fusco didn’t recognize the tunes, but the sounds were soothing and complicated. Watching them from across the room, Fusco felt like he didn’t belong in this fierce little circle of talent and strife. 

He needed to clear out for a while.

 

 

**The Lawn**

 

He looked around for Reese. The Shadow had slipped away again. Probably gone off to check in with Finch or Carter or both. 

Glancing through the front windows, Fusco was surprised to see how deeply the night had fallen, like a thick blue blanket around the farm house. 

He caught sight of his friend striding down the lawn toward a set of four Adirondack chairs clustered in a shallow bowl about one hundred yards below the front porch.

Beer and debriefing seemed like the next logical move. 

So Fusco fished four long-necked bottles of Yuengling from the refrigerator and, not bothering to excuse himself to his hosts, he ambled toward the chairs. 

In the gloom, he could barely make out the shape of Reese’s dark head over the slatted chair back, but he could hear the low voice, soft and confiding. He figured he would give the man a little privacy so he slowed his pace. 

Rather than surprise his friend, Fusco walked completely around the circle of chairs, approaching Reese from the front. The phone call was over, so Fusco wordlessly handed over two beers and settled in the seat beside Reese.

They sat that way in the dark, side by side staring off into the black clutch of trees at the bottom of the lawn. The liquid murmur of the little stream wafted up towards them on the humid night air.

Maybe ten minutes, maybe more, just silent. 

So quiet Fusco could hear the faint click of glass hitting teeth and the gurgle of liquid draining down the throat. The distant notes from the farm house tinkled behind them like fairy music.

The men were quiet so long that when he finally spoke Reese’s words startled even though they were soft.

“I miss her.” 

Just like that, veering into new territory: family, connection, possibility. Maybe this was another subject. Or maybe simply continuing the same topic, but from a different angle. 

“I know you do.” 

Then more silence as Fusco set an empty bottle on the grass and lifted the second one to his mouth. He figured if he didn’t talk Reese would, which he did eventually.

“She’s been down in Virginia for five days now. Her aunt’s funeral is tomorrow."

“When does she come back?” 

Fusco knew the answer of course. But he figured it was better to disguise exactly how much he knew about their lives. Giving Reese and Carter a sense of privacy, a feeling of unbroken boundaries was important to the work and to the friendships, so he kept up the fiction whenever he could.

“Next Saturday.” 

Reese paused, but the rise in his voice implied there was more he wanted to say.

“Sometimes, you know, I try to picture what it would be like for us. How she and I could make a life together. Given who we are, what we do. I see little glimmers of the picture sometimes. Bright shapes and lines that suggest something bigger. 

“But the whole never comes into focus.”

Fusco thought he could hear a catch in his voice then, a hitch over the last word, or maybe just a dryness in the mouth that required another long swallow of beer.

He took one himself before trying out a response.

“The family you two are gonna make together won’t look like anyone else’s. Not like the one you were born into, not like mine. 

“And God forbid, not like the fucking awful one up there in that house.”

Reese grunted but said nothing. The white of his shirt front glowed as he turned in the chair so Fusco knew he was following along closely.

“Your family will look like you and her together. Something completely new. That’s why you can’t quite see the picture clear right now. I think you won’t really see it complete until just at the end, looking back at your life after a long while.”

It was easier to talk this way in the dark, inhaling the clean air, listening to his friend’s steady breathing under the bubbly sounds of music and water drifting all round them.

“I think that’s when you’ll see the whole picture.”

Reese didn’t say anything for a moment. Fusco couldn’t tell in the dark what his silence meant. Then softly:

“Thank you.” 

Reese said it in a way that seemed to express many gentle things, rich feelings too complicated to put into words. Fusco felt a warmth spread through his chest, like the day’s heat was expanding inside him even at this late hour.

But Reese’s tone also called a firm halt to the line of conversation.

Reese twisted off the cap on his second bottle with a jerk. And his next words reflected the switch in mood.

“So did the Nix sisters seem in imminent danger to you?”

“You mean, aside from being bulldozed over and left buried alive by that monster?”

“Yes, aside from that.”

Fusco shrugged although he knew Reese couldn’t see the movement in the dark.

“Nah, those girls seemed to take it in stride, from what I could tell. I mean, I was itching to punch his lights out at least three different times tonight. Bastard acts like he’s Captain Jack Sparrow of the Good Ship Lunacy or something. 

“But they just sat there taking it like it was nothing special. Just like water splashing over their heads or something.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought. What I told Finch too. Psychological abuse isn’t usually something our sources warn us about. Not something we can do much about really.” 

Reese took another swig of beer over what sounded like a sigh.

“But he insisted. Said he was reading their blogs, emails, texts, even some phone traffic between them. And he said the sisters sounded frightened.”

This felt like a little bit of an opening, so Fusco took it.

“Your spy sources are pretty thorough, aren’t they? Mr. Glasses own Google? Or maybe he’s got an inside track with that NSA program or something like that?”

Reese ignored the question and kept Fusco on the case.

“I’ll stay here tonight, keep a close watch. If nothing more develops, I’m heading back to the city tomorrow unless Finch comes up with a new lead.”

“Yeah, this country night life is way too quiet. So creepy and quiet, you don’t even hear crickets out here.” 

Fusco laughed and Reese leaned forward to clink their bottles together in a comradely salute to city pleasures.

Then a hellish scream split the night.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Bathroom**

 

When they flung open the screen door and plunged back into the yellow light of the parlor, there was nothing to see. 

The Nixes had disappeared, the guitar, flute, and violins thrown on the sofa. But wailing from upstairs guided the men in that direction. 

That and the trail of blood dotting the wooden planks leading to the steps.

Three sisters crowded into the little bathroom, their white shoulders and shorn heads pressed together like a fleshy wall blocking Fusco and Reese’s view. 

Reese pushed Morgan aside and angled forward grasping Vivienne by the back of the neck to force her out of the way. 

Then, craning around Reese’s body, Fusco could see that it was Allison bent over the porcelain sink, her left cheek striped with a mix of bright red blood and tears.

Ondine held her sister by the waist, rocking back and forth, bending over her back in a protective stance. 

“Fuck! What happened, Allie?” 

Fusco hadn’t meant to shout, but the brute noise shut down the wailing and focused the sisters on him. 

Then Vivienne spoke in a high-pitched tone, her short sentences sketching the scene, while the others chanted in an affirmative wall of sound that filled the tiled room.

“He didn’t do it on purpose. Not exactly.” 

“Yes.” 

“She played the note wrong, missed the entrance on the phrase.”

“Yes.”

“And when he slapped her his ring caught in her earring.”

“Yes.”

“It just pulled away and tore and then the blood started spurting everywhere.”

“Yes.”

As the women gasped and cried, Fusco felt the horror rising in his gut. He thought he might vomit. 

Even though the bleeding had stopped, the blue towel draped around Allison’s neck was sticky and he thought he could smell the metallic stench of her blood. A livid purple welt rose along her cheekbone, oozing.

The din grew unbearable and he knotted all of his nerves together to stop from pounding a fist into the wall.

During this weird recitation, Reese worked with grim determination, first peeling Ondine away from her sister, then gripping Allison’s chin and pressing her head to the side to look closely at the damaged ear. He passed a damp washcloth over Allison’s face and ear for a clearer view of the split lobe.

He had been silent for so long that his order startled the others, whispered under the droning cries rather than barked or shouted.

“Morgan, bring the sewing kit. Now.”

How Reese knew they even had a sewing kit was a mystery, but without comment Morgan left the bathroom, returning quickly with a lidded yellow basket, flourishing a needle already laced with white thread.

With a few strokes, he sewed the torn flaps of skin together, two shallow stitches on the front, two more on the back of the earlobe. As his long fingers slipped across Allison’s skin, darting this way and that in a practiced pattern, his mouth narrowed in concentration.

He left the tails of the thread dangling down like white feathers almost touching the blood-splotched strap of her pale green dress. When Reese looked up, his eyes were rimmed in red.

“Lionel, you take her to the hospital tomorrow morning. These stitches will hold for the night, stop the bleeding. But they can do a better repair job there.” 

It was a command, cool and logical. But that arc of engagement was too distant. Fusco wanted to act, now.

“Sure thing, I’ll do that. But first I’m going to beat his fucking face in. The goddamn fucking bastard…”

“No. You won’t.” 

Even here Reese was in charge and his orders stood.

“You settle Allison for the night, Lionel. That’s your job now, your only job.”

He stared at Fusco until agreement was reached.

“I’ll make sure the others get back safely to their quarters. You take Allison to bed and you stay there with her, understand?”

Fusco looked around the little room. 

Ondine was slumped on the closed toilet seat staring up at her older sisters. In the doorway, Morgan and Vivienne were holding each other, arms twined around waists, foreheads touching. Their eyes were huge, the whites glowing brighter than the tile on the walls. Their mouths were turned down and gaping. 

He studied Reese, whose forearms were splattered with Allison’s blood, eyes shining like flint from beneath the dark overhang of his brow. 

He was sure that if Reese came across Anthony Nix that night, the old man would pay for his sins with his life.

 

 

**The Bed**

 

Despite his suggestion, Allison didn’t want to put on a nightgown. So Fusco slipped naked under the sheets behind her and pressed her cool body to his. 

In the thin moonlight, her arms looked silvery, fragile. He could just make out the white threads trailing from her earlobe. They blended in with the soft curls of her hair, all foamy white spread over the pillow.

He thought she would want to go right to sleep, but the waves shuddering through her body wouldn’t subside. 

With the window open, they could hear Reese walking with her sisters back to their studios. Though the murmured phrases were indistinct, the sounds rippling light or deep through the night air were comforting. 

After a while she spoke, her voice quavering and low.

“You know, what Daddy said at dinner wasn’t true. About me, I mean.”

Fusco squeezed his arms around her waist and said, “I know,” although he wasn’t sure quite what she meant. 

After a long pause, she went on.

“I’m not available. Not to John, not to anyone. I don’t want anyone but you, Lionel.”

She turned in the circle of his arms then, pressing her mouth to his throat.

“And what he said about drugs. I – I was for a while. Coke, then Molly. It made me feel unplanned, invincible, relaxed. Smart, you know? 

“But that was before you. Before things got better. I don’t do that anymore. Not once since we’ve been together, Lionel. Please believe me.”

He could feel hot tears dripping down his chest. He wanted to make her stop crying. To make her understand that he had never believed her father’s nasty words.

“I do, Allie. I do.”

He was surprised when her hand slipped down his torso, stroking over his chest and his stomach. He always felt like a big clumsy lug with her, like he might hurt her or crush her when things got heated up. 

And now, with her injury, his fears doubled. He didn’t want to jar her, re-open the stitches, cause more bleeding. After this tough night, he was happy just to lie with her, soothing her to sleep with soft words and gentle touches.

But she was the eager one now, her movements fast and sure. 

Urging him on, molding his erection in her palm, guiding his hand to her breast. She seemed fearless and determined now. Her lips were everywhere, printing liquid patterns over his skin, her mouth and hands caressing him, steering him where she wanted to go. 

He had never had sad sex before. 

Before this night, he would have said that combination was impossible. But here he was, feeling close to tears himself, listening to her moans like animal sobs when she pressed her lips close to his ear.

As he sank into her it felt like sliding into a molten stream, so heated, changing as he flowed along, drawn onward by her desire. He wanted this swirling and sinking, this drowning to go on forever. He felt so strong, so moored in her rhythmic embrace. 

He couldn’t lose the sadness, it stayed coiled around them; but he could submerge it for a moment, leaving it unnamed and harmless.

When she came she overwhelmed him, rushing the somber tide of his own orgasm to a sighing conclusion. 

He wanted to say he loved her then. 

But seeing the stitches in her earlobe reminded him of all the ugliness of that night. He wanted to save his words for a calmer time. A safer moment when she would believe he meant them.

Just as he drifted off, he heard careful footsteps in the hall and the snick of the light switch in the bathroom. Then a few minutes later came the faint swoosh of the sliding door as Reese sealed himself into the study for the night.

 

 

**The Bedroom**

 

It was so quiet at Ionia Plaisance that Fusco had fallen into the habit of waking with the sun.

Without the white noise of city traffic and the chatter of passing strangers on the sidewalk, he found it hard to sleep past dawn even on a Saturday. Instead, he heard roosters crowing, goats snuffling, chickens clucking, flowering bushes rustling. 

With all that commotion, he couldn’t fall back asleep even if he wanted.

The breeze ruffling the pink curtains in Allison’s bedroom tickled the hairs on his chest, cooling him slightly as he turned away from her warm body. When he got up he moved slowly so as not to disturb her, figuring the troubles of the previous night should be kept away from her for another hour if he could manage it.

He pulled on his khaki shorts and stood for a moment at the open window. 

Across the hard dirt surface of the back yard he could see the elaborate chicken coop. With its white clapboard siding and black roof, it was designed to imitate the main farm house in every detail, even down to the little covered porch. 

As he looked down, Reese emerged from the hen house, walking beside one of the Nix sisters. 

He was dressed in his dark trousers and white shirt, the same ones from last night, Fusco figured. 

The woman beside him wore a broad brimmed straw hat colored dark blue with a pale blue ribbon wrapped around its crown. 

The hat was so wide that as she and Reese strolled toward the back door Fusco was not able to figure out which Nix was underneath. 

He could see her outfit –- she was wearing cut-off jeans, a white cotton t-shirt, and tan work boots. He could make out the pointed cones of her breasts and the flexing muscles of her bare thighs. But from his high vantage point, her face, as she turned toward Reese in animated conversation, was completely hidden. Fusco realized then that he couldn’t tell the sisters apart.

Reese was carrying a large basket filled with eggs -- brown, blue, white ones with tan freckles. 

This domestic sight was so unprecedented that Fusco vowed to report back to Carter and Finch as soon as he returned to the city. But by the time he thought to grab his cell phone to record the cozy scene, the two had passed onto the porch and through the screen door.

Fusco took his time showering and dressing. Allison’s shampoo smelled nice in the tiny shower stall and he didn’t feel like hurrying to rejoin the clan just yet.

When he arrived at last in the kitchen, Reese was installed at the gas stove casually turning omelets in an ancient cast iron skillet. 

Allison had joined her three sisters and they were chirping away at the long pine table, waiting patiently for Reese to serve them their breakfast eggs, made to order. Their father was not around.

“What’ll it be, Lionel? With cheese or without?”

Reese seemed unnaturally cheerful for so early in the morning. His hair was still wet and slicked back, his eyes were bright and challenging. If this was a performance, he was doing a Broadway good job of it.

The butter sizzled deliciously, deepening in color from yellow to gold when he tipped the skillet from side to side like some kind of celebrity chef on TV. 

“You can have cheddar, Emmental, feta, or American.” Reese sipped coffee from a white mug as he waved a hand toward four bowls filled with cheese shavings or crumbles. 

“And Lionel, we _will_ judge you depending on what you pick, so choose wisely!” Reese grinned at him with all his teeth.

“Yeah, well good morning to you, too!” 

It was way too early in the day to get into any kind of spitting contest with Wonderboy.

Reese’s perky fan club giggled at this exchange, their thin fingers fluttering in front of their mouths. 

Fusco saw that the sisters all wore blue denim shorts cut so high the pockets peeked out from the ragged hems. Their white t-shirts were speckled with paint, or dried clay, or developing fluids, and one was torn at the neck. And four pairs of tan work boots were lined up next to the screen door.

Confirming the predictions of the peanut gallery at the table, Fusco chose American. 

Though they laughed and clapped at their success, he thought that the four women all showed signs of the toll of the previous night. Blotches of blue or purple spilled under their pale eyelids; their lips seemed chapped and dry. 

And the wicked bruise across Allison’s cheek had turned a dull red. Its irregular edges of yellow and blue pointed toward the damaged ear lobe and the white threads fluttering there.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Backyard**

 

The rest of the morning unfolded in an orderly way, with Reese alternating with Vivienne in giving out the orders.

Fusco drove Allison and Reese to town. In the spanking new clinic just off the main road, a nurse re-stitched her earlobe and wrote out a prescription for antibiotics without asking more than the bare insurance necessities. Either the nurse was just unnaturally polite, or the Nix sisters were such frequent fliers at the clinic that questions were beside the point.

Reese didn’t enter the building, hovering just outside for a few minutes while Allison signed documents, then disappearing to retrieve his car.

Fusco and Allison walked hand in hand through the leafy back streets of the little town. They didn’t really have a destination in mind, just looking for a chance to exhale and regroup out of the family spotlight.

Allison picked out a coffee shop where the dry sandwiches were mostly stuffed with bean sprouts and the beverages were named for capitals of Asian countries. But they ate enough and got a chance to talk about something other than her father, so Fusco counted the meal a success.

When they met up with the others again at Ionia Plaisance after two, it turned out Fusco and Allison had missed the group lunch. Ondine’s hand-crafted soup and toasted cheese sandwiches were pronounced the best of the summer, but Fusco was glad for the brief hours away from the farm. 

As they all chattered about the miracle soup, he could see Allison’s shoulders sag. Catching his eye as if apologizing for abandoning him, she told her sisters she wanted to take a nap before starting dinner. So she kissed him in front of the others and disappeared up the stairs. 

Fusco wanted to check in with Reese, find out what information Finch might have dug up, but Vivienne had other plans for them.

“Morgan is showing next weekend at a new gallery in the Meatpacking district. Maybe you’ve heard of it –- Les Halles? It was featured in the Times Arts section last Sunday.”

She raised her eyebrows like she didn’t expect either man to have a clue as to what she was talking about. She ran her hand over her cropped gray hair and sighed in pre-exasperation.

So they shrugged to confirm her suspicions and waited for her command.

“I need you two to help load up the truck with her canvases. She’s got the ones she wants to bring leaning over against the wall in her studio under a tarp. Just carry them out, stack them upright in the flatbed. We’ll lash them down later.” 

No thank you or by your leave. Just orders like she was the shift sergeant or something.

As Vivienne had said, the paintings were in clear sight in Morgan’s gigantic studio. What she hadn’t said was how big each canvas was. 

Morgan’s imagination was huge it seemed, although her color palette was narrow. 

She worked in primary colors, using broad strokes to deliver rough bands of alternating vertical stripes. Some paintings were mostly green, others mostly blue. Every once in a while she threw a curve and went for red or orange stripes. Each canvas was stretched over a frame more than ten feet square. 

Fusco and Reese found it took all of their combined strength to wrestle a single piece through the door and into the truck so the process of transferring all twenty artworks was lengthy. 

“Let’s take a break.” 

Fusco was ready to call it quits after fifteen canvases were stowed in the flatbed.

Reese didn’t object. So shoulder to shoulder they leaned against the cab door of the old pickup, puffing slightly as they looked across the back yard toward the farmhouse’s rear porch. The looming roof of Anthony Nix’s barn extended shade over the truck, the paintings, and the sweaty laborers.

Their t-shirts were damp and clinging to their backs and their fingers ached from all the clenching; Fusco could feel his biceps trembling and he figured that his own face was as red and grime-streaked as his friend’s.

After learning that Finch had supplied nothing new in the way of warnings or intel about the Nix sisters, Fusco let the talk dwindle into nothing. 

Reese seemed winded and subdued. Maybe he was still thinking about last night’s bloodshed and the murky twists of the unfolding case.

Drawing the back of his hand across his forehead, Reese threw out a question.

“You ever give Allison anything. Gifts, I mean?”

Odd question, but Fusco was glad to roll with it, looking to see where this lead went.

“No jewelry, that’s for damn sure.” He chuckled at the coals-to-Newcastle thought.

“But I take her places, when I can. Try to show her things she never saw before.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I took her to the fights last month.” 

Fusco hurried on, ignoring Reese’s puzzled frown. 

“You remember that welterweight bout, Kid Carrano versus Jens Ragnarsson?”

The way Reese’s mouth pursed up like he tasted something foul irritated the hell out of Fusco. So did his next words:

“Yeah, but it wasn’t much of a fight, as I remember. The Kid KO’d the Wrecker from Reykjavik in the fourth.” 

Fusco shrugged as Reese lowered his head, shaking it like he was trying to erase the sorry memory.

“You took Allison to see that? What did she say?”

“Not much at the time. Sorta quiet while we was at the ring. But she turned plenty frisky when we got home. So I figure she enjoyed it well enough.”

Fusco spoke quickly again to cut off any smart ass remark Reese might have been about to sling.

“So, you ever give Carter anything?”

He figured the personal question was fair game. Time to knock down a brick or two from that mile-high wall. But the slight huff of in-drawn breath let him know Reese was reluctant to answer. 

“Yeah, sometimes.” 

That was a start, a single brick. But not near enough.

“Well, O.K. Like what? I’m looking for ideas here.”

“I gave her earrings: diamond studs once and little gold hoops once.”

“Yeah, I seen those on her. Nice.”

With his eyes focused on the weathervane up on the barn roof, the sunlight bleached Reese’s blue eyes almost gray. He ran his hand over his mouth slowly.

“And once I gave her a scarf too. She seemed to like it.”

“You mean that dark red one? With the gold threads in it? Real beautiful. Yeah, she liked it alright, I could tell.”

Reese smiled and Fusco felt good, like he had done some kind of service for his friend.

Then Reese reached into the pocket of his jeans and withdrew a small pouch made of turquoise blue cloth. He worked open the drawstring and turned its contents out onto his palm. 

Fusco could see a simple ring, white metal with a faint shimmer of warmth.

“Beautiful. Silver, hunh?” 

He didn’t know what else to say, didn’t want to ask too many questions and risk shattering the intimate mood.

“Platinum. It looked nice.” 

Though he sounded shy, Reese said this with a conviction that sent a shiver along Fusco’s spine. 

“I got it three weeks ago.”

Fusco looked again at the ring shining in Reese’s hand like a frozen drop of mercury escaped from a thermometer.

“Yeah, it’s beautiful, John. She’ll like it just fine.”

The two men studied the ring for several more breaths. Fusco thought Reese was about to elaborate.

But whatever remark he was going to make next was interrupted by the arrival of Morgan carrying two tall glasses of icy pink stuff. Fusco saw him quickly push the blue pouch into his left pocket and the ring into his right. 

Morgan explained that the drinks were strawberries and gin mashed up with sugar and topped off with ginger ale. It tasted refreshing, like some kind of fancy lemonade.

“I thought you two looked like you could use a break. And a cold adult beverage. It’s after four, in case you’re fussy about that sort of thing.” 

Since she was smiling up at Reese even as she handed a sweating tumbler to Fusco, Morgan accidently dribbled some of the strawberry smash on the ground. She stubbed out the wet spot with her bare toe. 

When she lowered her head, Fusco could see her pink scalp winking through the soft bristles of her blonde hair. 

Surprisingly, the three sisters made the buzz-cut look good, he decided. But he was glad Allison kept her hair in long ringlets.

“Thank you.” 

Reese’s unwavering manners seemed like they were bred in that same parochial school Fusco had attended: rules, rulers, and a whole lot of quality time with Sister Michael Agnes. 

“No! Thank _you_! I was never going to get this truck packed up if I had to count on my sisters to help out. Five years’ worth of work right there, can you believe it?”

Reese extended his hand and drew an index finger along Morgan’s pale forearm. A network of little red scratches reached almost up to the elbow.

“What happened here?” Reese’s voice was soft, unexpectedly pleading. 

But Morgan threw out her answer in a bright bouncy tone.

“While you two were lollygagging here in the backyard we were out picking blueberries in the patch along the south end of the property. Scratchy work in that thicket, I’ll tell you.” 

He was gripping her right hand now, so she waved the other one vaguely across the whole southern sky to show where the sisters had spent the afternoon.

Reese turned her hand over, cradling it in his large palm. 

He didn’t say anything more. All three of them looked at the raised scar running in a jagged trail across her right wrist. The scar was dulled to a silver sheen now, tough and healed over, a relic from a desperate old gesture.

Morgan jerked her hand away. She held it against her little breasts like it was a wounded baby animal or a bird.

“Yeah, well I got quite a collection of those, as you can see.”

There wasn’t anything else to say, so they stayed silent together for some minutes. The deep blue shadow cast by the barn stretched almost to the porch now.

The backyard was so quiet that after a while they could hear the wheezing of Anthony’s old dog, Shep. 

He was sitting in the dark of the open barn door next to two rusty pitch forks. When they turned their heads to look in his direction Shep thumped his plumed tail twice on the dirt floor, but made no move to join them.

“You’re being watched. Always.” 

Morgan offered this in a whisper, her chin tucked under, touching her t-shirt collar. “Just so you know.” 

Reese tipped his head back to guzzle down the last of the spiked strawberry stuff. 

“Break time’s over, Lionel. Let’s get this job done.” He just never seemed to tire of giving orders. 

They pushed off of the truck’s running rail and turned in the direction of Morgan’s studio. She carried the empty glasses back to the house, letting the screen door slam as she entered the kitchen. 

From the gloom of the barn’s broad door an inky shadow thickened into human form, then slid forward into the sunlight.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Barn**

 

“High-concept.” 

Anthony Nix’s voice boomed out of the darkness of his workshop as they loaded the final canvas into the pickup.

“That’s what the faggot critics called it. High-concept art.”

He was leaning against the frame of the wide doorway, dressed like the night before in denim work shirt and jeans. But now his hair was snaking loose around his shoulders, the leather cord lost.

Like his daughters, Anthony seemed quite comfortable bare foot, even outdoors.

“I think it’s shit. Pure shit. She calls that striped crap ‘trees,’ for God’s sake!”

Fusco turned towards the old man. Reese banged the tailgate shut. A scowl creased his face and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the gate.

“I guess the only true test is the market, isn’t it, Anthony?” 

Reese’s voice was dangerously calm, but Fusco figured the old man wouldn’t necessarily pick up on that.

“And I hear that Morgan’s forest paintings can go for ten thousand and up now that the stock market is surging again.” 

At that, Anthony Nix burst out laughing. 

The noise was so explosive, ringing toward the barn’s high rafters, that Shep was startled out of his day dreams. The dog barked sharply as his master kept on laughing, the two joining in a rolling chorus of piercing yelps.

When he finally gathered himself together, puffing and red-faced, Anthony spoke with a back-slapping sort of approval.

“You follow that art market crap, John? Then you’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din. I’ll give you that.”

Waving both arms in a sweeping gesture, he invited them into the barn. 

For the next twenty minutes Anthony gave the two men a detailed tour of his work shop, the benches with precision hand tools gleaming at attention, the racks of draped leather looking like tobacco set out to dry, the wooden shoe forms and the metal findings. 

A bottle of red wine, three quarters drained, stood guard at one corner of the work bench. Rings of wine stains overlapped in intricate patterns along the edge of the table, some fresh, some faded.

As he walked around his spacious shop, Anthony drank wine from a plastic cup, but never offered any to his guests.

Spanning one long wall stood a rank of wooden pedestals, maybe twenty-five or thirty of them, all about four feet high, painted pale blue. On each pedestal was a single shoe, displayed like a work of art. On the wall above, wooden brackets, also painted blue, marched up toward the ceiling. Each of them had a shoe on it too. 

Spotlights hung from the rafters, their cones of light trained on Anthony’s master works.

“This is my gallery, my Guggenheim if you like. The display covers every decade of my career; it’s a museum dedicated to my art as well as a reference library for research and inspiration.” 

Anthony paused, but when neither man said anything, he continued in a louder voice that echoed off the barn rafters. 

“You know, I receive visitors from around the globe on a regular basis: Japan, Italy, France, Argentina. Each one a designer or artist, a craftsman or student, seeking inspiration through close study of my work. Their utter attention and devotion is really quite remarkable, I must say. Although not entirely unexpected.”

He pinned Reese with a long stare, blue eyes on blue eyes.

“And so you can appreciate, John, why I cannot abide the inferior quality of the stuff churned out by my daughters. They are lovely creatures in their own ways, certainly. But they possess small gifts which are totally transparent and so mundane. There is no mystery to their art, no divine spark to their creations.”

Anthony sighed then, as if accepting a great burden.

“Over the years I’ve tried to spur them on, to encourage them to expand and elevate their work beyond the ordinary. I truly have tried. But after many years of effort, I have come to the sad conclusion that they simply are not that talented.”

Anthony stopped in front of a tall ladder which leaned against the wall of shoes, its upper arms fixed by hooks around a heavy brass railing which ran the length of the display.

“I got the idea from those grand old libraries in Fifth Avenue mansions, you know. Following through on the archive theme, if you will. 

“Would you like to climb up to take a closer look at the shoes?” 

This last question, more of a command really, was directed at Fusco.

“Sure, why not.” 

Fusco mounted the ladder while Reese held it steady. After a minute suspended twelve feet in the air, looking at a dust-covered brown shoe, Fusco glanced down at his friend. 

Reese quirked his mouth, just missing an actual smile by a few millimeters, and began pushing the ladder along the railing.

“Hey! Cut that out! Whadda ya tryin’ to do? Toss me for a tumble?” Fusco looked around the barn, but their host was nowhere in sight.

“Where’s that goddamn old man anyway?”

“I don’t know, Lionel. Just relax and enjoy the view.” Reese continued to push the ladder, picking up the pace a bit.

After a few hair-raising minutes of this carnival ride, they heard a thump from the front of the barn. Then another. And another. 

The noise sounded like the dull pounding of Shep’s tail on the ground, amplified by the echo chamber of the huge workshop.

“Hold still, will ya? Before I break my neck.” 

Fusco clambered down the ladder and the two men walked toward the blinding glare of the open barn door.

Reese’s eyes must have adjusted faster to the daylight than Fusco’s did, because when he reached the door, he sprinted through the double wide frame, running toward Morgan's pickup truck, yelling as he moved.

When Fusco was able to blink his eyes clear, he saw Reese grappling with Anthony Nix in the truck bed.

The old man held a pitchfork above his head, waving it in two hands, his eyes starting from his skull in rage.

After a minute of silent struggle, Reese ripped the tool from Anthony’s fists and threw it on the ground at Fusco’s feet. Another minute and Reese locked his arms like iron bands around the old man’s torso, pinning his hands to his sides and holding on until the grappling stopped.

It was only at that point that Fusco could see the damage Anthony had inflicted. 

He had driven the rusted pitchfork repeatedly into Morgan's canvases, wrenching the tines violently to leave large gashes gaping in the center of each painting. 

Five of her paintings were destroyed, the canvases flapping like blue striped flags on a ship mast. Another bore three ugly puncture wounds where Reese had blocked her father’s rampage before the destruction could be completed.

“Fuck you, asshole!” Fusco snapped out the curse and reached for Anthony’s boots.

“Throw him down here, John! I’ll take it from here!”

The damn dog yapped at Fusco’s ankles, trying to defend his master any way he could. Fusco kicked at the dog, then at the truck. Shep yelped and slunk away to cower in the shadow of the barn door.

Reese glared down from the pickup bed, where he still held Anthony. The old man’s labored breathing showed how tightly the vise of muscle and sinew was pressing around his ribcage.

“Back off, Fusco!” 

Reese’s shout penetrated through the red cloud boiling in Fusco’s mind. 

“Get the sisters. Leave the old man to me.”

Fusco did as he was told. 

By the time he returned to the backyard with the women, Reese and Anthony Nix and Shep were nowhere around. 

The four sisters wailed at the sight of Morgan's destroyed art. Allison pressed Morgan's head into her stomach, clenching her fists against her sister’s blonde hair; Vivienne and Ondine knelt on either side of their stricken sister, keening in a circle of grief.

Their crying tore at Fusco’s heart and he sensed the anger rising up again in him. He felt impotent, disarmed by the suffering and immobilized without a way to respond.

He wanted to beat in Anthony’s simpering face, to cause him as much pain as he had caused his children, to ignore him as he wheezed for mercy. He hoped Reese was doing all of that and more to the old man in some secluded part of the farm.

After what seemed to him like an unbearable eternity of weeping, the four women climbed onto the truck bed. Silently they inspected each painting. 

Of the twenty canvases, fourteen were untouched; one was punctured but otherwise intact.

Vivienne had orders, always.

“Help me get the tarp, Lionel. In Morgan's studio.”

When they returned dragging the waterproof cloth, the sisters had thrown the ruined paintings on the ground at the foot of the back porch steps. 

Fusco helped Morgan and Viv secure the gray tarp around the paintings with packing straps and hooks. They worked in grim quiet; the only noise accompanying their efforts was the clucking of the hens that had been disturbed by the earlier uproar.

“Are you going to be alright, Morgan?” He thought the question sounded foolish given the gravity of the situation, so he was surprised by her mild response.

“Yeah, Lionel. Thanks for helping here.” 

Her eyes were dry now but red, her chin still quivering under the force of her emotions.

“That’s a helluva thing to see. Destroying your kid’s creations like that.” 

Megan’s breath hitched into a sob and Vivienne put an arm around her shoulder.

He felt he was babbling like a fool, but he kept going anyway.

“I mean, I saved every one of those construction paper art projects Lee brought home when he was in grade school. Every last one. My ex still got ‘em somewhere in a carton in storage.” 

He shook his head in sad amazement.

“Yeah, well. Welcome to the Nix family, Lionel.” Vivienne’s voice was low, bitter.

“This isn’t the first time he’s pulled a stunt like this. Two years ago Daddy spent a whole afternoon smashing every last pot and cup and platter Ondine had made during a twelve month period. 

“He said they all were trash, not worth looking at or wasting shelf space on. Hundreds of pieces. He said she should be thankful to him for the chance to start over again fresh.”

Morgan spoke up as her sister dropped the painful story.

“We found Daddy standing in Ondine’s studio, knee deep in a pool of white clay shards, ranting. It’s how he is, Lionel.”

She continued in a strangled whisper.

“Five years ago, he destroyed eight of my newest paintings, three of them already sold. It’s how he is.” 

Silently, Vivienne held out her sister’s two wrists to him, their blind slash marks turned upwards.

After that, the women joined their sisters in the farmhouse, letting the screen door slam. Fusco stood shuddering in the sunny back yard, the horror of it all washing over him.

For many minutes he remained in the yard staring at the slice of blue porch ceiling he could see from the spot where he was rooted.

He didn’t notice Reese approach and jumped when his friend touched him on the shoulder.

“So what did you do with the bastard?”

Although his face was rigid with emotion, Reese’s voice seemed calm, almost matter-of-fact in reply.

“Well, I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you were hoping.”

“I would’ve, if I got the chance.”

“Well, I guess I did give him a knock. Or two. Maybe three. Just to quiet him down a bit.”

Reese didn’t sound triumphant about the beat-down of an old man. When he didn’t elaborate, Fusco pressed on.

“So where is he now?

“I left him in his bed.” 

“Fucking S.O.B.”

“Lying with his dog on his chest. He was crying, Lionel. Holding onto the dog and crying.”

Fusco shook his head trying to erase the image of a devastated man pinned to his bed by his only companion.

“You think it’s the alcohol? Is he a bad drunk? Or is he just plain nasty?”

“Or both.” Reese said it as a fact, not a question.

“Is he dangerous?”

“Yes, he is.” 

Another bald statement, though the facts seemed more slippery than that.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Forest**

 

For the next hour the two men sat on the back porch steps, sometimes talking, sometimes silent.

At intervals, they could hear the sisters murmuring inside the kitchen, but the words never formed into understandable sentences. 

When Vivienne emerged from the dark kitchen she brought them a new task: ice cream for the evening’s dessert needed churning. 

“No reason for all these blueberries to go to waste. Not after all the picking we did this afternoon.”

So Reese and Fusco worked in alternating shifts, grinding away in a time-honored rhythm. Fusco felt that the simple mindless effort soothed his frayed nerves as much as it exhausted his muscles. He felt better for the hard labor.

When he looked over at Reese sprawled on the top step, he imagined a similar calm was working through his friend too.

Neither man would say it flat out, but Fusco knew they were standing guard to prevent Anthony Nix from entering the house for the rest of the afternoon and evening.

After two hours of slow churning, the creamy batter was transformed into a frozen foamy mass, white and softly streaked like Ondine’s bowls. The ice cream was ready for its blueberry topping.

As if she knew the exact state of the dessert, Allison pushed through the screen door at that precise moment to ask the men to go down to the stream where her sisters were swimming.

“I’ve got the roast chickens out of the oven; they need to rest for about fifteen minutes. Which will give me time to finish the rice and make up some gravy. Then we’re all set.” 

Fusco thought she seemed normal, calm after the afternoon’s turmoil, her voice mild and even. 

“So you fetch ‘em and tell ‘em no lollygagging. Dinner’s hot and ready.” 

Her apron, white with red cherries scattered across its front, was longer than her shorts, which gave her a comical, sexy air. Her yellow curls were tied up into a messy bun on the top of her head, a few strands floating around her smiling face as she issued their marching orders. 

His heart lifted for the first time that day and he returned her smile.

Reese and Fusco took their time walking down the lawn toward the forest. They ambled around the peeling blue Adirondack chairs; beer bottles from last night half hidden in the soft grass where they had dropped them.

At the edge of the lawn they passed under a tangle of old rose vines climbing on a broken wooden arch. Past the cool trees they walked, following a narrow thread of bare ground that served as a path through the forest. 

They paused at the top of the cliff overlooking the stream.

Even before the men peered over the edge, they could hear the lilting sounds of the three women. They were laughing, a blended chorus curling their voices around an unfamiliar song.

Though the singers were far below, the notes seemed close by, invading the men’s ears in gentle invitation.

Looking down, Fusco thought the scene was wonderful, strange perhaps, but wonderful all the same.

The three sisters were playing in the stream, diving and splashing in such a confusion of legs and arms it was impossible to tell exactly who was who. 

He could see a dark head surge above the surface of the water: that must be Ondine. 

Then Morgan’s blonde head emerged from the ripples, or was it the silver hair of Vivienne; the dappled sunlight painting the surface made it hard to distinguish fair from fair.

Reese turned to him and broke through the mist: “Call them, Fusco.” 

Why did he have to do it? Why didn’t Reese raise his own voice? 

Fusco went along anyway, no protest like always.

“Hey! Hey, you!” 

He thought he sounded harsh, like an intruder, which of course he was in a way.

He wasn’t sure if his call reached down to the water’s edge until he saw the three figures turn in unison, lifting their faces toward the cliff where he and Reese stood.

“Come back! Dinner’s ready! Come back!” His plea seemed weak even as it left his mouth.

The women raised six arms in greeting, waving their hands back and forth over their heads. He could see the iridescent drops flying from their limbs, like they were throwing diamonds into the air.

“Come on down! Come join us!” A single voice sang out, he wasn’t sure whose it was.

They were naked. The glittering water covered them to the waist. But he could see denim and white cotton piled between smooth stones on the grass. Near the foot of a steep flight of steps made of flat stones, he could see three blue towels draped over boulders, getting hot in the sun.

When he glanced again at Reese, his friend had taken a seat on a fallen log perched dangerously near the cliff’s edge. Fusco sat next to him, their shoulders just touching.

The women had returned to their dance, laughing. 

He could see their sleek legs and hips as they slid and plunged in the sparkling stream. Their white flesh looked slick and firm, their hands like silver fins slapping against the water. 

As they jumped and fell, the nipples of their breasts were like pretty strawberries winking, then dipping again. He could see gleaming rivulets slipping from the pretty dark triangles between their thighs.

He turned to his friend. Reese’s eyes were hard, almost hidden under the lowered brow like a circling hawk. 

Now it was Fusco who wanted to shatter the spell.

“I feel kinda funny, ya know? Seeing them here like this.” 

He wanted reassurance that this was alright, that this wasn’t breaking some rule he had forgotten to write down.

Reese’s reply was slow in coming but firm.

“Allison sent us down here. She knew what we would find.”

After a while, the women climbed out of the stream. As they wriggled under the blue towels, the water twinkled in fine beads on their cropped hair. 

When they started to pull on their clothing, Reese rose from the log and struck out through the forest for the house.


	8. Chapter 8

**The Front Porch**

 

Dinner was quiet; the roast chicken tender and juicy, Reese made the sisters laugh with stories about his fake adventures in Zanzibar, Indonesia, and Sri Lanka. To Fusco’s surprise, it turned out Reese knew a lot about growing exotic spices and tea. 

They finished off all the rice because he told them that the Wolof people of Senegal believe that for every grain of rice that’s dropped an angel sheds a tear. 

The sweat investment in the ice cream paid off deliciously. To Fusco, the wild blue berries bursting in his mouth tasted like sex, sweet and wonderfully sticky.

Anthony Nix did not join the family. 

Although he never saw him, Fusco still felt the old man’s presence floating over the dinner.

The entire evening, Anthony remained slumped in a wicker chair on the front porch. Ondine served him a heaping plate of food and brought out a small pottery jug filled with the white wine they were drinking in the kitchen. 

When Allison and Fusco excused themselves and retreated upstairs, he hoped their departure would break up the company. But as they settled in bed, he could hear plinking sounds from Vivienne’s guitar and the casual notes of folk music drifted up to their window.

Fusco recognized some of the songs –- “On Top of Old Smokey,” “Red River Valley," and other old Western tunes full of nostalgia and regret. 

_So come sit by my side if you love me._

_Do not hasten to bid me adieu._

_Just remember the Red River Valley,_

_And the cowboy that has loved you so true._

 

Once he even imagined he could hear Reese’s light tenor threading through a sea chantey, although he wasn’t certain.

_O, Shenandoah, I love your daughter,_

_Away you rolling river._

_I'll take her 'cross yon rolling water._

 

Fusco knelt on the floor next to the narrow bed and pushed Allison to lie down before him. _Come and sit by my side if you love me._ He pressed his mouth to her sex, letting the tastes of blue berries and cream flow from his lips to hers. _Do not hasten to bid me adieu._

The voices below blended into Allison’s moans. _And the cowboy that has loved you so true._ Her mournful cry was delicate like a broken thing in the wild. _Away you rolling river._

After they made love, Fusco fell into a sound sleep. 

The swirling emotions of the long day played through his mind, but those dreams were so enticing, sweet and moist that he slept deeply, until long past the Sunday dawn.

 

xxxxxxxxx

 

When he came downstairs, Fusco found the four sisters in the kitchen as before, but this time pancakes rather than Reese’s omelets were sizzling in the skillet. They were dressed in long white skirts made of some kind of lacy fabric topped off with skinny undershirts in black or white. 

They looked refreshed, their faces bright, their bare arms shiny and strong.

The women were chattering at such a clip that it took several tries before Fusco could get in a question on the whereabouts of his friend.

Ondine tipped her chin in the direction of the front porch but said nothing. 

He could see Reese’s dark silhouette through the parlor window; leaning forward against the rail, elbows locked, arms stiffly propping his torso upright.

Fusco carried two mugs of black coffee out to the porch. Reese took a cup, holding it in both hands, studying the rising steam but not taking a sip. 

The jeans and t-shirt of Saturday were gone. He was back in his city uniform –- white dress shirt, black trousers. But his feet were bare and his hair was messy, the black spikes outlined against the white morning sky.

He didn’t acknowledge Fusco’s arrival or say thank you for the coffee. 

Something was wrong, Fusco could feel it.

“Hey, you want some pancakes? Viv isn’t much of a cook, but she’s a real whiz with pancakes. You oughtta taste ‘em.” He tried to make his voice light.

Reese shook off the suggestion, but still said nothing.

After a few minutes and a few silent sips of coffee, Fusco went direct.

“Something happen last night?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Whaddya mean you don’t know? You don’t remember? Or you don’t wanna know?”

“Yes.” 

Beat. 

“Both.”

Reese looked at Fusco, his eyes flashing that glassy gray they got when there were tears in them. 

Fusco tried again.

“Tell me, John.”

Reese seemed to give up on some inner struggle then.

“I was asleep. Dead asleep. I didn’t hear the door slide open. I didn’t hear footsteps. Nothing.”

He paused, cocking his head to one side as if trying to hear back into last night.

“Then her hands were on me. Fluttering everywhere on me. And her mouth…In the dark…”

Fusco kept his voice soft, even though he wanted to shout.

“Who?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t see anything. Just feel her. Christ! Her face, her lips, her throat. Her hair like the pelt of some animal under my fingers.”

Reese clenched his hands on the porch railing and stared across the lawn. Seeing something invisible, feeling something unbearable.

“Like rolling in a river. Her tongue like a hundred fishes…It was…”

Fusco interrupted this misery.

“And you don’t know which one?”

“No.”

“Fuck.”

Reese continued with some strange urgency driving him onward.

“Then she closed the door. It was so dark. I fell asleep again. Hell, I don’t even know if I was awake or dreaming it all.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

The two men stood shoulder to shoulder on the front porch like that for a long while, staring out at the broad sunny lawn sweeping down to the woods below. 

They didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say.


	9. Chapter 9

**The Pool**

 

At first the sound was faint, like the echo of a high-pitched song.

Then as it went on, the tones resolved themselves into a howl. Shep was crying in a one-note tune that penetrated the distraught minds of the two men. The dog and his master were somewhere in the woods.

They threw the half-full mugs on the grass and took off running toward the source of the mournful sound.

As they skirted the circle of Adirondacks, Fusco saw a stained blue work shirt and jeans hanging on the slatted back of one of the chairs. Anthony Nix had stripped off his clothes here. A white pottery jug lay shattered on the ground next to the chair.

From the height of the wooded cliff where they had sat the previous afternoon, Reese and Fusco saw the broken body sprawled in the shallows of the little stream.

At this turn in its course the rushing water slowed through a widened bed forming the pool where the Nix sisters had leaped and played the day before. 

The water’s dappled surface was now disrupted by Anthony Nix’s naked figure. The black-and-white dog was standing near his master, forelegs in the water, rear paws on the grass.

Looking down at the scene, the two men knew instantly what Shep’s howling meant. 

Scrambling down the irregular flight of stone steps, they raced to the body. They took the stairs quickly despite the certainty that there was nothing more they could do.

Struggling behind him, Fusco marveled at Reese’s movements, his sure-footed descent suggested that rock-climbing was yet another of his many skills. 

The exposed roots of ancient trees offered hand-holds which Fusco took advantage of. But Reese flew by them with careless grace. 

When they reached the body, out of habit Fusco bent to press a finger to the pulse point behind the left ear. The skin was cold, still pliant, but lifeless.

A large dent marred the back of Anthony’s skull, just above the hairline. Blood embroidered the fracture, congealing in the stringy hair which fell over his bare shoulders.

Reese touched the head of the mourning dog, stroking the animal’s ears until he quit his wretched howling.

Fusco’s investigative instincts took over. He wanted to piece together the details of the incident as best they could before they had to explain it to the Nix sisters or the police.

“I figure sometime last night he musta decided to cool off, go for a swim.”

Reese began talking then, his voice hoarse, the words low.

“When I went upstairs to bed, Anthony was still on the front porch. He wasn’t singing, but I could see his head over the top of the chair through the window.”

“How much do you figure he had to drink?” Fusco started calculating body weight and ounces of alcohol. “I mean, I saw Ondine carry him at least two jugs of wine during dinner.”

“I don’t know. But yes, he was drinking heavily. He never came into the parlor the whole night. I think she must have taken him three or four more of those pitchers after you and Allison left.”

Both men sighed and the dog looked up at Reese, like he was waiting for a signal of some kind.

Fusco continued the reconstruction of events.

“Then at some point, Anthony musta took off for the stream. Shed his clothes near the chairs. And two of the women musta followed him.”

“Or led him.” Reese’s eyes were on the woods above the pool.

“Yeah, maybe. So, they follow him to the edge of the cliff. And then they see him fall.”

“Or they pushed him.”

Fusco gave into the gruesome alternate scenario Reese was proposing.

“Yeah. Two of ‘em.”

Reese closed his eyes, reaching out to touch the dog again. Fusco thought he sounded like he wanted to skip the next part, but he couldn’t stop it from coming out.

“And the third one was with me.” 

After a pause, Fusco continued. 

“So when the two of ‘em get to the bottom of the cliff, maybe they see he’s already dead. Maybe not.”

Reese turned in a complete circle, his bare ankles making little waves in the water. When he found what he was looking for, he pointed toward the grassy bank.

“Alive or dead, I don’t know. But one of them used that. To make sure.”

The stone he indicated was lying in a shallow indentation in the grass. Mud was caked on it, but Fusco was positive some of the black streaks would turn out to be Anthony Nix’s blood.

Reese repeated his grim assertion.

“And the third one was with me. It took two of them to drag his body to the stream. 

“But the third one was with me.”

Fusco nodded, resigned now to hearing him out.

“I’m their alibi for last night, Lionel. I can’t say for certain which of the three women didn’t do it. So I can’t know for sure which ones did.” 

Reese ran his hand over his face, pressing fingers into his eye sockets, maybe trying to erase images, maybe hoping to capture lost visions.

After he did that twice, Fusco spoke to interrupt the punishing action.

“So I figure they’re all guilty. Each in a different way, I guess.” 

He didn’t want to say it right then, but he knew Allison was implicated too. 

How much did she know? How much did she plan? How much did she hide? He couldn’t tell for sure, couldn’t even ask the questions right away. 

He just didn’t want to think about it now.

Whether it was a bird’s cry or the crack of a broken twig, something drew the attention of the two men toward the cliff again. 

They looked up to see the four Nix sisters lined in a row at the edge, gazing down at them. The women were standing at the spot where Fusco and Reese had watched them dance in the pool the previous afternoon.

Fusco couldn’t make out their expressions; their faces were hidden in blue shadows. 

But he could tell that their mouths were closed and they clasped their hands in front of them. They stood at attention, sunlight playing through the lace of their white skirts, a vagrant breeze lifting the hems around their white ankles.

Fusco faced his friend, whose searching eyes were focused on the women above.

“Look, you know we gotta call the police soon. They have to investigate, close the case.”

When Reese looked down at the stream again, Fusco could see his eyelashes were spiky and wet. He reached out to gently squeeze Reese’s shoulder. 

Then he walked over to the grassy bank and picked up the bloodied stone.

He examined the gore on its smooth surface, weighed it in his palm, and felt confident Reese had found the right one. With a grunt, Fusco cast the stone into the deep center of the pool. 

As he watched it sink below the concentric circles, he noticed a movement on his right.

Reese reached into his pocket, pulling out the platinum ring. 

Without pausing to look at it, he whipped his arm to throw the ring toward the stone’s watery grave. Circles, smaller than before, smoothed over and then disappeared as the men stared at the dark pool. 

Fusco felt waves of sorrow rippling through him then. If he could just go back, he would erase this whole filthy weekend; all the revelations, the easy deceit, the casual betrayals. 

Somehow, he should have been able to prevent it. He should have protected his friend from the tangled hell of it all.

A sob bubbled up in his throat, but he swallowed it down.

When Fusco looked to the cliff top again, the women had vanished.

But there was still a job to be done.

“You gotta get away from here, John. You can’t be here.” 

He could see hesitation in Reese’s open face. Fusco couldn’t remember a time Reese had seemed more vulnerable. So he laid out the case in the starkest terms he knew.

“Look, you can’t testify. And you got nothing material to say that advances the investigation. These women, they will use you as an alibi if they have to.” 

He paused to let the truth sink in.

“But if that don’t work, then they’ll pin it on you. You know how it’ll look: Slick city stranger with a shady background, making time with the sisters, putting a beat down on the old man. 

“With you gone, they won’t say nothing. About you. About this weekend. Nothing. I’ll make sure they don’t.”

Reese nodded, accepting the protection, if not the comfort. 

He turned toward the steps, crossing the grassy slope in six long strides. At the base of the staircase, he paused with one foot on the landing.

“Lionel, there were ridges on both of her wrists.” He held up his right hand, rubbing the index finger against the thumb in a slow circle, remembering. 

“I could feel them in the dark. Jagged scars all across.”

Reese looked resolute then, hesitation erased at last.

“It was Morgan.”

The crooked pieces of the case fit together, even if the cracks remained. An ugly conclusion for sure. But it was the truth: clear, uncompromised and hard. 

Then he lowered his head and climbed slowly up the stone steps. At the crest, he disappeared into the trees, the dog trotting at his heels.

Fusco sat for a while on the grass, chilled despite the sun beating down on his back. 

He watched the stream bubble and dance around Anthony Nix’s body, little white caps breaking across the shoulders as his hair lifted and tangled in the waves. 

There was plenty of blame to go around. Fusco thought he deserved a good portion, for his infatuation, his lust, his blindness. The sisters had done their share of course, as had their father. 

The idea that John was least to blame but most injured coiled and festered in Fusco’s mind for the half hour he stayed by the pool.

By the time Fusco got back to the farm house, Reese had gone.

 

xxxxxxxxx

 

**Epilogue: The Gallery**

 

 _Two months later Fusco read about the opening of Ionia, a new Soho gallery, in the Times Thursday Style section._

_The celebration merited a spread of front page photos, showing a few of the hundreds of fancy people who turned out in support of the grieving Nix sisters as they launched an ambitious new space to promote the arts --- painting, photography, ceramics, even jewelry._

_The article called the sisters “elfin, elegant, and mesmerizing.”_

_Gushing without shame, the critic wrote that their art was bold, brazen, edgy. “Exquisitely curated” was a phrase Fusco memorized although he didn’t know what it meant. He quit the article after this: “Gallery Ionia emerges from the pretentious murk of Soho as a space that reconfigures the terrain of the city’s cultural landscape.” What the hell._

_He didn’t recognize anyone in the full-color pictures. Crowds were packed like sardines into the gallery’s bright rooms, whose walls were splashed with the distinctive aquamarine shade Anthony Nix had made famous._

_Clenching their Champagne glasses and tight smiles, every patron looked rich, well-heeled quite literally, since many were wearing Nix shoes in honor of the fallen patriarch of the family._

_After a brief investigation, the Ionia Corner police had ruled Anthony Nix’s death an unfortunate accident._

_A tragedy to be sure, everyone had said, but wasn’t it wonderful how well his lovely daughters were coping under the circumstances? Such a fine tribute to their upbringing, everyone said._

_Fusco had split from Allison a month after her father’s death. He tried and he knew she tried too. But the images of that murky stream ran through their relationship until it had to end._

_After that he went on a two-day bender which only ended when Carter dragged him out of the back booth at Swann’s Way. Retaliating against him or her father or something, Allison chopped off all her yellow curls, shearing her hair down to the nub._

_But to Fusco’s relief, Reese and Carter were still solid._

_Reese giving that old dog to Taylor as a belated birthday gift was a genius touch. And Shep was making the transition to city life pretty well, at least according to Carter’s regular updates._

_Fusco felt he owed Reese a debt, even if the other man would never acknowledge it._

_So Fusco made certain his friends were still safe in their risky relationship. He wanted to make sure that Reese’s distant picture could still shine bright out there for them on some hopeful horizon in spite of the twisted shadows of Ionia Plaisance._

_Fusco’s campaign was simple. Maybe those secret flowers he sent to Carter’s desk were a corny gesture. And he really hoped Reese stayed confused about where those leather driving gloves had come from. Sure, he hated giving up the two freebie tickets to Kid Carrano’s title fight. But the contented smile on Carter’s face the next morning made that sacrifice well worth it._

_Meddling, you could call it. Prying or snooping into their affair, maybe. But Fusco figured it was just looking out for his own self-interest when you got right down to it. After all, more than one person knew how to play at the spy game._

_As he studied the newspaper photographs more closely, Fusco thought he recognized a single face in a small black-and-white picture on an inside page._

_At the margin of the gallery crowd, clutching a tiny white vase, Harold Finch was squeezed against one wall. A giant canvas covered in dark vertical stripes loomed over his head._

_He thought Finch was speaking with one of the Nix sisters._

_But with her back to the camera, Fusco wasn’t exactly sure which murderer it was._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fusco's compensatory gift of tickets to the boxing match are put to good use by Reese and Carter in the story _The Sweet Science._


End file.
